15. Home Bitter Home
HOME BITTER HOME
Graphic Scene
I catch sight of the bus from down the street. As I rise, I grab my phone and make my way across the road before the bus enters the bus stop. I make my way down the path, but my feet are heavy, and my legs have a strained feeling to them.
If anything, I expected a missed call from Mum and Dad. There’s nothing, and that seems to stir a sickening feeling inside me more than them blowing up my phone.
I had never run before. I always stood on what little ground I had and copped the beatings. And here I am, making my way back to hell barefoot (metaphorically speaking).
My home comes into focus. The car is still there. I stop walking, and my breath turns rapid, and my throat dries from the pent-up fear consuming me.
I can turn back and roam the streets for a while, hoping that if I check back later, he will be gone.
“Noya?” I stiffen at the sound of Mrs Crawford’s voice. In a blue bathrobe and with a wary expression, she stands on her porch. “Would you like to come inside for some tea or coffee?”
“Um…” I dart a look at my home and then at Mrs Crawford. “Okay.”
A musky scent fills the air as I step into her home.
From beside the door and above the fireplace in the living room, there’s a shotgun.
My focus lingers on it, but I don’t stray and follow her into a vintage kitchen with fruit-print curtains, a plastic tablecloth over the table, and white, lacy placemats in front of every seat.
There’s also a wire basket in the centre of the table filled with oranges, bananas and apples.
Mrs Crawford stands at the kettle near the sink. She pours water into two mugs. The scent of instant coffee fills the air.
She hands me a cup with pink and yellow flowers on it. Then, she goes to the cupboard above the sink, takes out a container, and opens it as she sits at the dining table. Sugar cookies fill the tin.
“George—my late husband—used to hide these from me because I’d always indulge a little too much.” She takes three and leans towards me with a mysterious smile. “It’s one thing I don’t miss about him.”
My face is unwavering. Even Mrs Crawford’s light humour cannot reach the muscles. The thought of Dad floats in the back of my mind at the idea that he knows I entered her home. He would cause a scene in front of the woman who wanted to help me.
After adding three teaspoons of sugar, I take a sip of my coffee and stir. The sugar high goes to my head, somewhat energising my slumped, exhausted form.
“Have you been out all night?” Mrs Crawford asks.
I nod, taking another sip of my coffee.
She dunks her biscuit in hers as she says, “It was deafening last night. I’m glad you weren’t there to witness it.”
“Did you…” I bite my lip to hide the hitch in my voice. “Sorry…”
“Speak up, dear. You can ask me anything. Don’t be shy.”
I take a deep breath, desiring to steady the heavy beating of my heart. “Did you, um…see anything?”
“No. He’s good, isn’t he?” Mrs Crawford replies bitterly.
“He never takes the argument outside. He knows that once he does, I will be there and record it all. He won’t be able to hide behind his job.
” She grimaces. “I’ve also tried reporting him.
Called the police many times, but they never respond.
They think I’m an old chook looking for trouble because I’m the only one on this street with enough guts to call the police and complain. ”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “But you don’t need to do that. I wouldn’t want my dad to come after you, too.”
“Please, dear,” Mrs Crawford scoffs. “He doesn’t scare me. Besides, you should be more worried about yourself. Have you thought about going to a women’s shelter?”
“A few times,” I admit. “But because of Dad’s work, I’m worried he would find me and tell them a twisted story they would believe over mine.”
“You poor thing,” she says. “Well, if you ever need an escape, come here. My door is always open for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Also, may I ask who that boy was last night?”
“Oh…a friend.”
“Hmm…” she says, her smile broadening. “Does he think so?”
“No,” I admit. “But it’s nice to…”
“…feel loved?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad someone makes you feel that way. You need all the love from those around you after the life you lived in that home.”
I lower my gaze and stare at the caramel colour in the mug.
“He’s leaving.”
Perking up, I lean to the side and peer out the window overlooking my front yard. Sure enough, Dad’s car swerves across the lawn before speeding down the street.
“I should go home,” I say.
“Of course. But remember what I said earlier, Noya. My home is always open to you.”
I nod, not confident enough to answer her. Mrs Crawford’s kindness is enough to show she is a wonderful, caring person.
A scene plays in my head as I open the door to my home. I should have known that leaving my belongings unguarded would have this effect. My door is off its hinges and leans against the wall beside the entrance to my room.
He tore my school papers, assignments, artworks and art books and scattered them across the living room. My clothes are like a trail of breadcrumbs leading me to devastation.
I place my hands over my mouth to hide the horror from spooling out. Dad broke my bedframe, flipped my mattress, and shattered my mirror. Pieces of glass litter my room.
Dropping to my knees, I grab my school bag and look inside. My wallet is gone.
I bow my head into my hands and struggle to keep it together. This isn’t normal. None of this is normal. Everything I loved. All the drawings…
I touch the ripped paper of the tree I drew yesterday.
He ruined everything.
The door beside my room closes. I jump at the sound, then rise and make my way to my parents’ bedroom. “Mum? I say as I knock. “Mum, what do I do? He ruined everything.”
“Noya…” Mum says, her voice cracking. “Clean your room before your dad comes home.”
I sniff.
“Where did you go last night?” She says when I am about to open my mouth and tell her where I want, only to be left speechless. “I need you here.”
I close my mouth and bite my lower lip. Without a word, I make my way into my room. I don’t want to act violently because it reminds me of my dad. Her words hurt because I know I’m the scapegoat in her mind. The one that will be the decoy. The bludgeoned punching bag.
I wish I had never gone to her room, so that I could imagine a caring mum.
So I could imagine a mum who wanted to protect me, but out of fear, she stood frozen and watched. Not this…person. I’m not her relief. And to hear her think of me like that, and not as someone she should protect, hurts me so much that I wish I weren’t here.
I have no family. No love. Nothing I yearned for. And the more I stand here and stare at a torn-apart room, the more I feel like falling. No one will care. No one would blink if I left.
My phone vibrates, and as I look at the screen, all those negative thoughts die from the simmering pot about to boil over.
Conner: Morning, Noya. Did you end up getting to sleep?
At least there is one person out there who will miss me.
The front door opens while I stack most of the artwork and assignments in a pile. I flinch, clutching the paper tightly as the footsteps draw closer.
“Noya,” Dad says in a firm voice. “Get the groceries from the car and bring them in.”
“Okay.”
I avoid eye contact as I rise and sidestep Dad hovering at my door. As I leave the house, I round the car to the back. He packed the boot full of food…and bread.
Dad used all my money. I saw it decrease in my bank until I was only left with $7.23 to my name. All that hard work and savings vanished because I was foolish not to grab my wallet from my bag before I jumped out the window.
Grabbing two of the bags, I enter the home as Dad turns to me from the chair.
“I called your friend last night—Samantha.” My shoulders jerk when I grab the box of pasta and place it on the dining room table.
“You weren’t at her place. So then I called Andy.
” I set another box of pasta down on the table.
“He told me you might be with your friend…Conner.”
A hollow breath escapes my parted lips at the betrayal of my childhood friend—the one who claims he’s my best friend. The one who knows what Dad is like sucker-punched me in the gut.
Why, Andy? Why would you tell my dad about Conner?
He’s someone who has no part in all of this at all.
Someone I want to hide and keep to myself is on the kitchen bench with a bullet to his head, and the forensics are claiming it’s a suicide and not the looming puppet master standing over them with a sinister grin on his face.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.
“Because all you do is lie to me, Noya,” he snaps as he rises from his chair. I flinch away from the grocery bags and lean against the counter with my hands gripping the edge. “Give me his number.”
“Why don’t you steal it from your work?”
“Give me his last name, and I will,” Dad threatens as he reaches out, his brown eyes glowering at me.
“No,” I recoil.
“What?” He leans in to hear me better.
“No,” I say, my voice clearer.
He reaches for my pocket as I clutch my phone and grip it in my hands. With an irritable grunt, he grabs my wrist as I drop to the ground and kick at him. Curses splatter out of his mouth as he lifts me off the ground and slams me down onto the tiles.
I grit my teeth and hold onto the phone, desperately needing to keep Conner out of this. To protect him, I think, as I keep hold of my life support.
I’m not losing him. Dad won’t keep—
He grabs my hair, and I cry out. A wailing and piercing scream tears through me as my back arches into the pain. He then lifts me by the arms, convulsing me as my back hits the tiles with force. “Give me the fucking phone!”
“No!” I cry out.
He lifts me, his face inches from mine. Spittle slits through his teeth, and his eyes remind me of a rage-filled bull ready to charge.
“Give me the fucking phone, and if you make me find it myself, I will hide outside his home. The next time he leaves it, I will fuck him up. I will make him bleed. Your friend will never walk again after I’m done with him.
” My hold relaxes, and I fall to my knees and sob when a spark of pain hits the side of my ribs. “Don’t you defy me again.”
Another minute passes before he throws the phone beside me. “There. Not that hard, was it? Now go finish unpacking the groceries.”
“Okay…”